A little bit of hammering goes a long way toward making the kind of noise I want my heart to look up to—or have you ever gone into a woods and applauded the light that fights its way to the ground, and the shadows, and the explosions of feathers where blue jays have been ripped into the bright and hungry future of hawks— and there’s this—writing an etude by pushing pianos off a cliff until one of them howls or whispers just so—like a vagrant slipping into a clean bed or a man lifting a dying child toward the sun and begging help, rescue—if my eyes could speak, they’d be mouths—the tongues of my fingers ask to be words against your skin—and when I was a librarian, I lost my job for exhorting patrons to sing “Bye Bye Miss American Pie”— it’s not what we do here, I was told— yet I know this is a world made by volcanoes, and don’t want to keep this awareness of kaboom to myself—so have picked up my zither and begun walking and strumming like an idiot who thinks music is all a body needs to feed itself— and though I haven’t eaten in years, I have been fed. Copyright © 2016 Bob Hicok. Used with permission of the author. |
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